


Coeptus

by someoneanyone



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Original Work
Genre: but i really like it still so, this is old and bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:32:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6893905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someoneanyone/pseuds/someoneanyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Latin: beginning, undertaking. These are the first steps taken down a road paved with grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coeptus

A long, long time.  
It had been ages since anyone had come calling— but here, at last, was another one, looking for riches, fame, love, glory; hope. They never believed that they could get anything themselves; it was always, "if I only had this", "if only I were born like this", "if only I could snap my fingers and turn the world upside down"— then it would all be perfect. They went to the mountain, come to beg a favor that they could never hope to repay, and this one was the first in a century to think it would be worth the price.

Good. Perhaps the game would at least be entertaining this time, having a fool doomed to fail.

"Miss Witch?"  
Oh, _Miss_. So she was a miss now. Fitting, in a way; she had been missing, missed, and she was as always a mistake— and yet here was the newest quester, and here was his Miss Witch.  
Her hero might have a chance after all, if time had been so forgiving to even her.

"Such a long, long time since I have been called that." A hag's voice— broken, old, faded.

"Such a long time since anyone has bothered to call." Haughty, and arrogant. How the legends must be told now, for her to be spoken to so.

No matter. There would be more, after this one, until she was forgotten again.

"Funny lad, to echo a poor old woman's thoughts in such a way. Have you come only to mock your Grandmother?"

"No. I've come to speak to the mountain."

Ah. Not forgotten after all.

"What old ideas you're carrying, to come to the witch to hear the words of the land."

"What old ideas you're living in, to not expect it at some point."

What a silly creature, to take the first step into an ancient, angry world with so much disrespect. It truly would be a shame if she were to be disappointed only because a child had never been taught manners.

She cackled, and the boy flinched.

She cackled again. "Old ideas, child, are all that you're going to be coming across once you set foot outside of Beggar's Hole; _you_ should expect nothing else, seeking audience with the bones of the earth. Learn to meet them kindly, or to receive your rudeness returned in suffering."

The sound of a sword being drawn echoed throughout the cave, and she couldn't help but laugh again at the sight of the boy; he was drawn up as tall as he could go, fragile as a sapling and playing with fire. He could be great, given enough time— but the same could have been said for all that came before him.

If she were capable, she would have pitied him… but time had taken that from her, as well, and all that she felt now was resignation.

He would make a demand, and she would meet it.  
He would set off, and she would watch him go.  
He would not come back, and she would know why.

"None of your nonsense, old woman— _let me speak to the mountain._ " His voice shook.

"But of course." Hers did not.  
The mountain, however, did a century's worth of trembling for her.

It had been a long, long time; she would give him his hope, and they would both weep for it; she knew this story— and all of its variations— well.

A sorcerer, powerful and wise, mentor to all, who truly did nothing but kill and stall.  
A piper, mysterious and strange, living to serve, bound to give what he received and take what he deserved.  
A witch, old and far-seeing, Grandmother to the earth and its children, who answered prayers with funeral pyres and pleas with thank you's.

Magic was cruel; that was its fate. She—he—it— _they_ — had learnt it wasn't worth fighting.  
The heroes and heroines, however, did not know better, and by Magic's rites and laws the children couldn't be refused.

They all went out, doing battle with fate, until inevitably they were lost and forgotten, as the Witch/Piper/Sorcerer had been/would be/was.

None came back, called by Magic, led on by courage, and in the mountain the only legend left alive waited, despairing, for them to stop.

It had been a long, long time, and just as she/it had begun to hope, the newest boy had come and stolen the apparently baseless optimism for himself, and taken it out to die with him.

If he weren't entertaining, if fate were to be only swift and cruel and pitiless again, oh, it would be a waste.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried.


End file.
